Of Warships and Post-Isms
by No.13
Summary: A routine meet-up at an art gallery between 007 and Q gets interrupted by somebody from Bond's past - while he is trying to get a grip on the present. Things go as well as expected.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**AN:** Well, this has obviously been inspired by Skyfall, and the dynamics between Bond and the new Q. This isn't going to be slash; this is more supposed to be a scene of them learning to work together. Or something. ^^; The other inspiration was on how out of place the classical Bond is at times in a world of social networks, hyperreal spaces and so on and so forth. Last but not least, I tried to do my homework, but if you find a mistake, please point it out. ^_^

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**Of Warships and Post-Isms.**

The 21st century, to James Bond, is a strange affair.

Instead of governments trying to outsmart, outmatch and outmuscle each other, the main threat nowadays are obscure terror cells that may or may not exist, appear out of nowhere, are present for fewer days than a one hit wonder, and disappear into nothingness again. Oh, and they consist of ordinary citizens, that may turn into suicide bombers, hackers, religious nuts, general nuts, or just may not. Large masses of ordinary people are as given to become a violent mob, as they are prone to mass panic or just being one unreactive mass on public transport.

In cold war times a Russian accent revealed much, but nowadays you can't even trust your eighty year old neighbor with her four cats, and about half the world speaks English anyway. The rest speaks Chinese, as does the girl working at the ticket counter in this gallery as well.

He doesn't pay much attention to the art (post-romanticism) anyway. The few visitors are a little more interesting, yet as the cold war is long gone, museums have become rather out-of-date for clandestine rendezvous' between agents. Which of course doesn't mean that the elderly couple on his right may not just be art enthusiasts - they could be members of some obscure underground organization that is plotting to detonate a bomb in Seoul right now. They might be both, actually.

007 sits down on a leather seat in front of an old-fashioned oil painting. It's another old warship (is this going to be a pattern? If so, he wants to bury his head in his hands, because there must be thousands of paintings of ships in London alone, and he really could put those minutes of lifetime to a better use. Even if he has to look at paintings.) - this one is lying in a dock and being taken apart.

He doesn't really want to think about metaphoric meanings right now.

Then it's one thirty and Q isn't there.

Actually, having Quartermasters that look barely old enough to attend college is another of those things about the 21st century that Bond could have done without. At least the new M is still one of the old block - the moment somebody of that Q generation takes over the MI6, Bond knows he's going to retire. Or disappear. Whatever is more practical at that time.

Now all he wants is that new gun (the last one is currently being guarded by some curious penguins in southern Chile), and then get back to his job. Waiting isn't good, because now he's thinking about everything he could do (and has done) with an exploding pen. Or that invisible car - he'd like another car with nice extras, but apparently those have gone out of fashion, too. The last time he asked for anything beyond the gun he was offered an iPad.

And Q is late. Probably the department got caught up battling some criminal in cyberspace. Those incidents are far more common than bullets being fired, and Bond is only relieved that M is as much at odds with this as he is.

He gets up intending to leave, and then Q strolls in, looking for all the world like an art student with the exhibition catalogue under one arm. Old instincts flare and Bond realizes sitting back down is going to be just as conspicuous as it would be to walk up straight to Q (though, since this is the 21st century, not because anybody would suspect them of being secret service agents, but rather because a man of Bond's age chatting up what looks like an undergraduate student is going to look suspicious- the elderly couple might just report him).

So he walks over to the next painting, pretending to have a closer look. It's another ship (something deep in him wants to have that exploding pen, now) - or to be correct, it's a wreck on some nice tropical beach. And there's a white whale blowing in the background.

He hears high-heels clink on the marble floor and watches from the corner of his eye how a girl - and this one probably really is an undergraduate art student - joins Q in front of the picture he has been watching (this one only has the white whale in the front, and a ship in the background).

Wonderful, wonderful 21st century. Instead of having to watch for enemy spies or assassins, it's air-headed college girls that hinder the secret service. And as long as she is watching Q, Bond can't approach him.

For a moment he fantasizes about her being an agent for some obscure underground organization. Or something else clandestine. But then she opens her mouth and starts talking to Q about the motives of the painter, the epoch he is referencing and how he uses ships and the sea for metaphors.

Bond wonders if M would approve of exploding pens going back into production.

The elderly couple has disappeared into the next room. There is red light blinking in the corner of his eye from the other direction - then the world explodes. Bond is on the ground before a wave of heat rushes over his back, bursting windows, shattering frames, there' a high-pitched scream - but he can tell the explosion wasn't that bad.

The room is rapidly filling with black smoke, and the sharp gust of wind that pulls at his hair tells him the outer wall is gone. With it probably also the main staircase - but there were emergency stairs at the other end, two rooms down.

A look back reveals Q and the girl trying to find their feet as well, both looking a bit worse for wear, but there's no blood.

"To the emergency exit," orders Bond - in a tone he could just address a stranger with, but Q just glances at him in return. Probably wondering if this explosion is related to any job, but the terrorist cell Bond is spying on does not bomb galleries specializing in post-romanticism.

Both Q and the girl nod, and even though it's the 21st century, some things do not change, and they are both being gentlemen, looking to get the lady out of danger first.

It turns out to be a bad idea since from the smoke filled room lying between them and the emergency exit a shot is fired, hitting the girl and taking her down. Bond and Q drop down too, and hide on the left side of the doorway.

"Oh come on," says some disembodied voice on the other side, "Just come out, James, and I don't have to shoot any more civilians."

For some strange reason, all Bond can think of is the elderly couple. Since the voice does clearly belong to a female person of advanced age - it's the kind of voice that had just the right pitch to read fairy tales.

Next to him, Q swallows. That bird's nest that passes for his hair looks even wilder than normal, but his hands are steady when he presses the small box holding Bond's customized gun into his hands.

"Old acquaintance?" he asks in a whisper.

Bond has to think on this for a moment, until eventually he recalls a curvy blonde some twenty years ago.

"And how are you doing, Sylvie?" he asks out loud, and risks a glimpse around the corner. Even with the outer wall gone, the smoke is too thick to make out anybody in the other room. At least they don't have to worry about smoke poisoning too much. With the way the wind is blowing in cold November air, they're far more likely to catch a cold.

"After you left me in Havana? Ah, James, that were no easy times," says Sylvie, "But then I met Greg - and things have been fantastic since them. You know, we even got to be grandparents last year."

Somewhere in the back of his mind 007 wonders if this is another 21st century thing, because he remembers villains boasting of how they were going to destroy the western world/the world in general/ rule the world, but he doesn't think anybody ever told him about their grandchildren.

"It's true," confirms Q, who obviously reacted to being under attack by getting out his tablet and hacking into the galleries wifi, "They already made their grandson a Facebook page."

Exploding pens, thinks Bond, what he wouldn't do for an exploding pen right now.

"Anyway, imagine my surprise when I found out Greg knew you too," says Sylvie from the other room.

"He worked with the KGB," adds Q, "And after that for General Grubozaboyschikov."

Bond remembers both of them. But he doesn't have time for reunions, not if he wants to get to his dinner on time. Instead he eyes the room where the explosion took out the wall, and part of the floor, too. They can get to the exit this way. The drop isn't even that high - hardly three meters.

He nudges Q.

"We go down there," he says, and readies the gun to cover them. Q acknowledges this by storing the tablet away. Then Bond fires into the smoke and they race for the doorway, dropping out of shooting range the second they can.

Q is out of breath and 007 disappointed because there was nobody returning the fire. They make it to the spot where the ground crumbles away without difficulties; down there, the floor is strewn with debris and remains of art (hopefully that awful painting of the ship is gone too).

The drop is not very high either, so Bond gestures for Q to go first, while he makes certain nobody is trying to shoot them from behind. However Sylvie and Greg remain unseen behind the smoke, so Bond wonders about their intentions. If they actually aim to kill, they're not pursuing their goals very hard.

Maybe they...

But Q is already down, and all 007 can do is follow. He lands without trouble, only to stare into the barrel of a gun.

"Hello Mr. Bond," says a smartly-dressed woman of an age somewhere between thirty and sixty, "We were waiting."

With this she leans back in a swirl chair (the one the stood behind the front desk of the gallery), and turns the gun to point at Q's head. Q looks slightly confused, pale, but not overly scared. (Which does secretly make Bond feel relieved – at least the MI6 kept preparing all their staff for emergencies on their list, even though they may have dropped age requirements.)

"Well, how can I be of service, then?" asks Bond, adopting a relaxed stance as well.

He observes her; however her body language gives nothing away. She seems to know how to handle a gun, though, even if she is being demonstratively flippant about it. If he was on his own, he'd try to take her out, but with Q in the line of fire, he hesitates.

"How?" she echoes, "Well, you could try and explain just how you left a trail of that many jilted lovers, or vengeful ex-employees of certain persons. You know, the kind that call themselves Ivan the Terrible, Khan, Mr. Big or Barnie the purple dinosaur. Interestingly enough, the only trait those have in common is being dead. Well, except Barnie, that is."

She does give him a bad feeling, and not only because he doesn't quite know if Barnie was added as a joke or if there is really some criminal referring to himself as Barnie the Purple Dinosaur out there (And if so, what business would he operate in?). Then, his eyes catch sight of the quite demolished poster naming the exhibition. She follows his gaze.

"Post-romanticism," she reads, "Quite fitting, isn't it, what with those ex-lovers chasing after you."

If she's going to tally about ships and metaphors Bond will shoot her. Regardless of all consequences.

As if reading his thoughts, she fires. There's a sharp gasp, then Bond watches in disbelief as Q sinks to the floor, grasping his leg.

"It's just the lower leg, nothing life-threatening, but you weren't listening, Mr. Bond," says she, "So I had to find a way to make you re-asses your priorities."

There's blood spreading on the floor, and even knowing this isn't a serious injury, this still means this woman is far more dangerous than she is pretending to be. Q is biting his lip, choking all sounds, but Bond knows from experience that this hurts.

"So what do you want?" Bond asks, "You didn't really give me a clear answer earlier."

She shrugs. "Actually those people asked me to find you. They were willing to pay a bit of money, but seeing as I'm a human being, I told them to spend that on their grandchild instead and just to observe the MI6. You were bound to show up there sooner or later. I mean, you do work there."

The scheme is sounds as stupid as it has been effective. For a moment Bond has to wonder if the entire service hasn't been compromised, but old affairs aside, few people alive (and not on the same side) know his status, name and office address.

Meanwhile she leans back in her chair. "What could I want from you... information, I guess. Names and locations of MI6 agents. But to be honest... there're other ways to retrieve those."

Annoying crazy, post-modern people. Bond is fairly certain she falls straight into said category - both by her ramblings and behavior. Neither quite a psychopath, nor having an agenda - though as Q is down he has a clear shot at her upper body.

If he's fast enough.

The moment he slips his hand into his pocket, a second shot is fired. A pained mutter, and Q slumps to the floor, eyes squeezed shot, hands clutching his shoulder. Fresh red blood dries the one already drying on the dusty floor.

"Please do leave your hands where I can see them," she chirps, "Then again, there're a lot of spots in the human body you can put a bullet through without killing. So you do have time to learn."

Restraint obviously has been lost on this generation as well. And now he really needs to get himself and Q out, before this madwoman completely snaps. At least, there won't be any more meetings in front of paintings of ships in the near future.

In case they both live to see it.

"I can see you think. And to be honest, I am starting to suspect that my practice target here is no ordinary citizen to cause this degree of hesitation within an agent of your position," she says, "That might be a rather interesting piece of information, for, say, the Americans, don't you think? Though the Saudis do pay a lot better."

He refuses to reply. She shrugs, and giggles. "Or maybe he's not from the service at all, but your lover?"

She could have done without nodding to the poster.

So before she can torment Bond's brain with further speculation, he asks a question himself: "And who are you, then? I don't think we've been introduced, though you appear rather familiar with my person."

"Not popular enough to be on any of the wanted lists, I guess," is her cheery reply, "Some people refer to me as Moriarty. You know, you have your numbers and letters. We use characters from literature and media. I'd say our system is a bit more romantic. In a post-romantic way, of course."

Maybe he should risk it. Q will survive another bullet, especially if she is aiming at non-vital spots. While all he needs is to get one shot in.

Then there're footsteps approaching from the direction of the emergency exit, and she rises from her chair. Standing, she looks even more normal than sitting down: a non-existent haircut, jeans, and uninspiring white blouse and a grey winter coat. She's going to fade into the background the moment she leaves the building.

"Hey Greg, Sylvie," she calls out, "If you want to finish the job, 007 and his little friend are here - and well, I really have to get back to the office now."

"Sure, go, and thanks for your help," with a last exchange of pleasantries this Moriarty takes her leave, while Bond finds himself looking at Sylvie and Greg. Their clothes are in a bit of disarray ... and while he has faced many villains, he thinks few of them had such a grandparently air to them.

"Hm, what do we do?" asks Greg. He doesn't even pull out a gun. "Kill him?"

Sylvie frowns. "I know that was our plan, but would you really mind deviating? Because, look at him, do you really think killing him will be that much of a ... well, disfavor? He's both socially and temporally displaced, so I'd say we let him be."

"You've always been such a romantic, Sylvie," says Greg, "Let's do that."

"Well, Mr. Bond, enjoy the rest of your life, then," adds Sylvie and hand in hand they take their leave.

He will not admit it, but he was frozen in place for a moment. The 21st century had not only blurred the line between normal people, psychopaths and criminals (they were all pretty much the same), but also seriously distorted behavior patterns.

When this madness finally seems to be over, he drops down next to Q, checking the wounds. The bleeding on the leg wound is slowing, but there's fresh red blood seeping out of the shoulder wound when Bond pries Q's hands away from it. The other man gives a sound at this, somewhere between a whimper and grunt, and Bond realizes he is still conscious.

"Q?" he asks.

"Bond," is the strained reply.

And he finally hears steps and sirens outside. Now help arrives… but then again, it is lunch hour.

What follows is a short, but efficient instruction of the arriving police and medics, a ride to a hospital, and while Q is wheeled off for surgery, Bond faces his superior. M. frowns, listens, grumbles and in the end only shakes his head. In the end he instructs Bond to take better precautions in the future (and maybe cut down on the affairs. Jilted lovers only make everything far more complicated, really), and not to think about this new sort of criminal too hard, since he has a job to do.

The job itself – espionage on a terrorist cell over dinner at one of London's finest restaurants - goes well. No bullets fly, nobody gets killed, and nobody knows Bond is a spy. But then he can't be quite certain who is sitting at the table with him. People talk about how they know this, or know that – but nobody names their sources. Instead of naming concrete targets, talk is about how to manipulate information to create a movement – and a target.

Bond has to think of Q typing away on his tablet while he had his gun drawn. Information may have always been at the heart of Intelligence services, but the 21st century has put a new spin on it – espionage is not about retrieving information alone, but now there is to consider who may be manipulating it to their own ends.

Maybe this is why his feet carry him to the hospital after dinner is done. At least this one cooperates closely with the MI6, and Bond gets to Q's room without anybody questioning him.

"Bond?" asks Q, looking up in surprise from his laptop, "Did you get shot?"

"I merely had a dinner appointment," replies Bond, a little annoyed since Q had probably known already.

"Did you get food poisoning, then?" asks Q with a raised eyebrow.

Bond makes certain his expression doesn't change. "Neither. You?"

"Well, the food certainly could be better," is the reply. Bond takes the short pause to study the younger man – he is pale, but beyond looking even younger on the hospital bed, nothing seems wrong with him.

"So, did anything else happen?" asks Q, "Did you get anything new on their cell?"

Bond relates the dinner conversation, and within minutes they are engrossed in work. Q is trying to trace their network, according to the information various dinner guests provided, but the construction remains elusive to Bond.

"I wonder if they're partly using the same informants," says Q, and when Bond raises an eyebrow, he continues: "Not like security leaks. There's some people, like the woman earlier, who just happen to know all the right people, collect information and then resell it – they're like spiders, but very difficult to track down since they receive most information through personal channels."

"But taking them out would set the terrorists back quite a bit, wouldn't it?" asks Bond.

Q nods. "If we can identify them. Though even taking them out would be difficult, since most of them can hardly be charged with any criminal offense – even if they trade information, they usually make certain it never touches their own hands. But then again, that's also what field agents are there for."

Q gives a dark smile, and Bond returns it. Tracking down spiders seems a far more challenging (and exciting) job than attending dinners with maybe-terrorists that do nothing but talk about what they heard.

"And also why the technical side to that enterprise should stay at the office," adds Bond. Because he really hadn't liked Q being shot earlier. Not only because he looked too young, but also because people like him were most effective at the office (where they couldn't be maimed, injured or killed). And if the old Q had always been a bit of a mentor for Bond himself, it was probably up to him to become a mentor for this new edition himself.

"Well, I guess I will just have to find somebody else to meet at art galleries, then," returns Q with a lopsided grin.

Bond nods. He will be able to tackle this 21st century madness of post-modernity, post-constructionism and post-romanticism. He has a boss that still values fieldwork, and everybody who has no job on the field will not appear there. And most importantly: no more gazing at painting of ships with barely-veiled metaphorical suggestions.

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_Please feel free to give me an opinion. Or guess the references in here. ^_~_


End file.
